Sonny Outlook
by NCR Ranger
Summary: Those who speak against seeking righteous revenge haven't had the burning drive to get it for themselves


Usually, Sonny _enjoyed_ himself during a full throttle workout.

That was a given. He was a SEAL, after all. Developing a commitment, and even a love, of getting into the peak of psychical strength and endurance was pretty much par for the course for any SEAL on the training pipeline. After all, 2.5 _years_ of near-constant training and exercises, all aimed at getting them ready to deploy to combat zones on distant battlefields, not _only_ were they in the best shape of their lives, but they also now had been imbued with the desire a desire to _stay_ in that shape.

For any true frogmen, that was true for years after they'd earned their trident. Actually, for more than a few of them, that was decades: there were plenty of 40s, even 50 year old retired SEALs who still had more muscle packed on than you'd expect for someone of their age.

Nobody on Bravo was_ quite_ that old yet ( except Jason, of course. Not that the rest of the guys would say so where he could hear them ), of course. Still, as it was now, none of them had let go of that drive to exercise the way a SEAL should.

Even Sonny, the self-proclaimed ( but completely right ) grand master of how to properly enjoy Gucci missions, had taken care to get in some PT.

He'd made a point to take advantage of their lux hotel's gym. The facility was actually pretty good: real wooden floors, moisture proof floor mats, excellent AC, and a wide battery of virtually every kind of exercise machine known to man, along with racks and racks of weights, coils of heavy rope, and other assorted workout gear.

It was, overall, a perfect environment to pump iron in. Granted, it was certainly _way_ too tame for the likes of the whip-wielders who'd run every of Bravo's members through BUD/S, but they were neither here nor around.

Bravo was well past that; they were on a genuine _Gucci_ mission. This was all about relaxing, living life in the slow lane, with a slight side dish of training the upstanding members of the Philippine military in Spec-Ops tactics. It was tailor made for Bravo to take a step back from basically living on the edge so much.

Except, that's exactly what Sonny felt he was doing right now: living on an edge. Teetering on an edge, actually, and at risk of falling off.

" Damn you, Clay ", he muttered, swinging another right hook, from the shoulder, into the wobbling black punching bag. The densely leathered, sand filled target was rocked back and to one side by the force of the blow, but nearly at once swung back as Sonny hit it from the other side, with the same if not more force.

Suffice to say, he was angry. Hurting, but angry.

" Dammit, poster boy. You've done it now. "

Sonny had his molars pressing into each other as he slammed a quick volley more hooks into the bag. It took more energy to use hooks, as opposed to the faster and lighter jabs, but he had more than a little pent up emotion that he needed to expend on, _something_.

What he _wanted_ to expend them on, though,wasn't available- that would be the scheming, filth-eating cowards who'd cared out the bombings last night that'd turned the streets into a full fledged _disaster_ zone, of the kind you'd expect after a _magnitude 6_ earthquake. They'd killed and wounded all those innocent locals.

They'd also brought Clay to death's door. They'd nearly _killed_ him.

The kid had taken the brunt of one of the bombs, and at this exact moment, he was in dire straits, with the US Military's medical corps working feverishly to keep him alive.

As if it wasn't enough that some gutless terrorists had targeted ordinary folks, they'd done serious damage to one of Bravo's own. The poison of the corrosive cake was, there was nothing Bravo could do for him. They couldn't help him. They couldn't even go after who'd planned the attacks, because they had no intel. Mandy and co were doing their thing do _get_ that intel, and Sonny knew it went without saying they wouldn't let up until they had something Bravo could act on.

Nobody was letting up. But, for all of that, it wasn't enough.

_thf thf, thf thf !_

Sonny kept beating the bag, keenly aware of how his anger was affecting him. Right now, he knew it was something he could use to drive him on. It could be a fuel. But, if he wasn't careful with how he used it, if he wasn't in control, then it could be something else.

Something worse. Or, at least that's what he'd been heard about what anger could do to you. How was he supposed to be sure, though ? He was nothing more than a humble Texas cowpoke.

_Well, one way to find out. If we don't get somethin' to go on real soon. Or if Clay takes a turn for the worst-_

_Oh heck no. **Not** even gonna go there. No way. **No.**_

Shoving that depressing train of thought off the rails, Sonny worked the bag for a few minutes more.

Or at least, it seemed to him. He wasn't exactly tracking time. There was a digital clock on the wall- in fact, there were several of them- but Sonny wasn't paying much attention to them. This wasn't usual PT, anyway. He was here as much to calm down and get his mind straightened out, as he was to actually work out.

_Give us something to do. Give us someone to hunt down, because God knows, _**someone**_ needs hunting down for what went down out there._

* * *

Finally, Sonny had to admit he needed a breather.

He still didn't know how long he'd been at it, exactly, but he was actually beginning to get tired, if the burning in his arms was anything to go by. That, and he'd worked up a considerable thirst; his throat was now painfully dry, and he had to admit that he was in the mood for a drink.

Not something at the club, though. It wasn't as much fun without the full team, and besides, he needed to keep a level head.

" That oughta- that should do it for now ", he muttered to himself, pulling off his gloves with fingers that were aching from how tightly and long they'd been clenched.

Slowly turning away from the now well abused punching bag, Sonny stopped when he saw Jason standing in front of him.

Bravo Team's field commander had both thumbs hooked in his cargo pockets, and his expression was a combination of weariness of being awake for too long, and his usual brooding intensity brought around from being the man in charge of the team when they were so often in harm's way. All that, and he did have two children stateside, one of whom was a troublesome daughter.

The slightly older man said nothing at first , then:

" Does, that bag _owe_ you something,Sonny ? "

Jason spoke in a quiet, somewhat concerned way. He still didn't move, but he did indicate the bag with a gesture of his chin. Sonny blinked, then glanced over his shoulder at it.

He exhaled. " It, ah, got in my way, boss. Had to teach it a lesson. "

" I noticed that " .

Jace glanced off to one side for a moment, and worked his jaw slightly from side to side, thinking of what to say next.

" Been going around keeping tabs on everyone till they call a briefing. ", he explained. " . You're all keyed up down here ", he noted at last. " And you're the Gucci Mission Master to boot. "

Sonny didn't refute that, but this sure wasn't a true Gucci mission anymore. They both knew that by this point.

He had so say so, at least.

" No offense, but, things've kinda gotten lethal in our neck of the woods. "

Pausing for a moment, Sonny added:

" Clay found that out the hard way. "

And, there it was.

That's the real reason he was down here, giving this round of improvised PT everything he had. That was the unspoken thought shared by _everyone_ on Bravo: the plight of their wounded frogman. That he was still living was about the only fragment of good news they had, but it was sharing space with the attack that'd put him there to begin with.

And, that those behind it hadn't been nailed yet. Those last two were keeping everyone on full alert, and constantly geared.

Sonny knew Jace was thinking the same thing. He could tell from the way one of his fists was clenched hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Jace was as mad as any of them.

_As he rightly should be. _

_"_ He did. And do you know how it happened ? ", Jace asked, in a low, tight tone.

" He was saving a bunch of kids. Getting them out of harm's way. Doing the right thing, and then- "

Jace snapped his fingers.

" Boom ", Sonny finished.

" Yes. "

Neither of them spoke again for a few more seconds. Exactly why, Sonny wasn't sure, but that wasn't important. SEALs could say a lot without mincing words.

They knew exactly what needed- what had to be done. They didn't _need_ to say it aloud, but there was nothing remotely wrong with saying that aloud.

Which is exactly what Jace did.

" These guys can't hide from us, Sonny ", he suddenly declared. There was steel in his words, a unmistakable note of determination. " We're Bravo Team. One of us is hurt, all of us are. We're going to keep chasing them till we put this right. "

" Get some water, then follow me. Blackburn wants us to do another gear check. We'll need it when the hunt begins. "

" Amen to that ", Sonny responded. " Right with you, boss. "

As he set off, Sonny felt that anger from before coalescing into the same kind of iron resolve he'd heard from Jace. Now he realized, it'd always been there anyway.

It was good to have it.

_You yellow bellies are in for it now. Better write your wills while you can, and make your peace with God._

_Because__ when we find you, we'll send you to meet him._


End file.
